When the weather is warm and the glass running high
And the odors of Araby tincture the air;
When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky,
And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;—
In spring or in summer I'm free to declare,
And the same I am equally free to maintain,
One person has power my peace to impair:
The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.
When the foliage flushes and summer is by,
And russet and red are the popular wear;
When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh
And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;—
In the season of autumn I'm free to declare,
And my language is lucid and simple and plain,
One person's acquaintance I freely forswear:
The man with the limerick gives me a pain.
When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly,
When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare,
And the prospect which nature presents to the eye
Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;—
In the season of winter I'm free to declare
That the limerick person is flat and inane.
This person, I think, we could easily spare:
The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.
From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare
That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain,
One bore is peculiar — and not at all rare:
The man with the limerick gives me a pain.